But now I love the calm retreat,
Away from tumult, noise and strife,
And in the works of nature sweet
I learn her laws, the laws of life.
The monuments which I erect
Will hand my name for ages down,
While tombs of kings will meet neglect,
Or worse, be greeted with a frown.
My trees will bloom and bear their fruit,
My carp-pond glitter in the sun;
My cherished grape-vines too, though mute,
Will tell the world what I have done.
Now lest you think that I am vain,
And that my trumpeter is dead,
I’ll drop this graceless, boasting strain,
And sing of you, dear Coz, instead.
Of all my Cousins, old or new,
I love the prairie chicken best,
I see the rising sun in you,—
Although you’re rising in the west.
The picture you are working on,
I’d almost give my eyes to see,
I know it is a striking one,
For it is of the “deep blue sea.”
But how you ever took the notion
To paint a picture of the sea
Before you ever saw the ocean,
Is something that surprises me.
I’m glad you have the skill to paint,
And pluck to labor and to wait;
And too much sense to pine and faint,
Because the world don’t call you great.
True greatness is achieved by toil,
And labor for the public good,
’Tis labor breaks the barren soil,
And makes it yield our daily food.
Then cultivate your talents rare,
And study nature’s lovely face,
And copy every tint with care;
Your work will then have life and grace.